Late Knight
by StarCannon
Summary: Another late night fighting crime on the streets of Gotham for Batman...another mind-numbingly boring night for Alfred.


_(First off, I seriously never thought there would come a day when I would find myself posting a fan fic on this site again. But then the writing of this little thing just sorta happened. And wasn't sure what else to do with it. So here we are._

_Enjoy.)_

**Late Knight**

Another night alone. Like pretty much every night. Such was the life of Alfred Pennyworth.

Truthfully, the whole Batman thing was a little hard to accept at first, but he'd long since learned that Bruce had a very hard head and a very strong will. What he wanted to do, he would do. It was wisest to just get out of his way and hope for the best.

Which is what Alfred did most of the time. Maintain upkeep of the mansion. Answer phone and doors. Provide daily meals. And stay out of the way.

And he was good at all of those things. As he should be, he'd had enough practice.

Still, boredom struck every so often.

And tonight, Alfred Pennyworth was fucking bored.

What to do? He had a whole mansion to himself, yes, but it was dark and full of dull gray sculptures and large repetitive tapestries.

Nothing fun.

Not even a Wii.

He thought about baking a cake. And then he thought about baking brownies.

So in the kitchen is where Alfred found himself. Slouched on a stool, elbow perched on the counter, head resting on his fist. Staring at the dimly glowing innards of the ridiculously fancy oven. In which he was baking a cake stuffed with brownie batter.

He sighed.

_'Is this really the best you can do?'_ said a voice somewhere in the back of his mind._ 'A cake-brownie?'_

'Well, what do you suggest? Sledding down the front stairway? I'm a little to old for that. Plus Master Bruce tried it already several years ago and found the enjoyment level to be disappointingly low.'

_'You live in a mansion the size of a football field! There has to be something!'_

'Well...all the most interesting bits are in Master Bruce's study.'

_'Are they now?'_

'Which I shan't go in while he's away. I respect Master Bruce's privacy too much for that nonsense.'

_'Do you?'_

'Yes, of course I do.'

_'Did he respect your privacy that time he snuck into your bedroom and put a miniature cactus on top of your alarm clock?'_

'Master Bruce was a mere child of twelve when that incident occurred - '

_'What about the time you tried to spend a whole evening rearranging the library while he sat outside the door and beat-boxed until you let him in just so he could search through to find the answer to whatever clue he'd found at a crime scene the night before, thus ruining all the progress you'd made?'_

'That was different, he was stressed and working a very difficult Joker case...'

_'What about the time he accidentally got drunk, thought your pants drawer was a toilet, vomited inside, realized his mistake, chuckled, then pulled out his phone and Instagramed it?'_

...sigh.

_'So? Are you going to visit the study before or after the cake-brownie is done?'_

'Well before, obviously. If I wait until after I'll be sure to leave crumbs everywhere, won't I?'

Alfred found himself at the door of the study a lot quicker than he'd expected. And he didn't realize it until just now, but there was a strange, light-hearted emotion fluttering somewhere deep down inside. It sort of felt like excitement, mixed with a hint of rebellion.

Alfred pulled out the ring of house keys from his pocket. There were many keys on it, and the markings distinguishing them from one another were horribly faded, but if anyone knew which one went where, it was Alfred Freakin' Pennyworth. He found the study key immediately.

The lock clicked satisfyingly in his hands and Alfred pushed his way in.

"Master Bruce?"

Of course he wouldn't be in, but it was literally impossible for Alfred to not be polite at all times and at least ask to make sure. To do things differently would just not be proper.

He stepped across the threshold and took in the smell. The smell of Bruce Wayne angst. Which was basically a mixture of Axe body spray and fire.

Alfred had been in here before, but those times were quite limited for two reasons - 1) Bruce asked that he only come in to tidy up once a month and that he please ask first before doing so, and 2) Alfred could only handle so much testosterone at one time.

And that's all the place seemed to be filled with. Weights. Punching bags with pictures of gladiators on them. A massive projector screen next to a whole wall full of blurays containing movies about ninjas, documentaries about tanks and bazookas, TV shows about robots destroying aliens, hot women on beaches, Jason Statham's entire filmography, and a black marble fireplace that Bruce kept perpetually going despite Alfred's warnings of very the obvious fire hazard (to which Bruce replied, "This house was built with bricks, stone, and the ice cold breath of Satan. It will never burn down, Alfred.")

Also, on the wall opposite the blurays was Bruce's prized collection of weapons.

Machetes. Nun-chucks. Daggers.

Swords.

Something lept up in Alfred's heart, awakening a part of him that had been sleeping for so long that it could almost be classified as ancient.

As a boy, Alfred had a rather large fondness for swords. He'd played King Arthur in his parent's backyard with a stick jammed into the ground many a late afternoon. He'd gone to see stage productions of Shakespeare and practically drooled during the dueling scenes.

But he'd never seen a real sword until he accepted the position as butler for Wayne Manor. Thomas Wayne had given him a tour of the entire grounds and Alfred's eyes soon landed on a sword displayed proudly in one of the first floor hallways. He'd asked if he may hold it, just for a moment.

Thomas smiled and complied, picking the sword in question carefully up from its bed of crushed red velvet and handing it to Alfred.

Alfred's arms immediately snapped like toothpicks under its surprising about of weight, so he tried to play it off like he was taking the piss. Thomas laughed and made some sort of inappropriate joke about swords and penises that Alfred couldn't remember because it was too crude for him to ever consider passing along to anyone else. He let Thomas put the blade back on the velvet and vowed never to indulge in such tomfoolery ever again.

And yet, here he was.

And there was a sword.

A beautiful sword, that perfectly reflected the sparkling flames of the forever-fire next to him. Alfred swallowed, eyes wide and hungry.

And before Alfred knew it, his hands were on the hilt. It was smooth and cool and practically begging for him to pick it up.

So he did.

It was light. Much lighter than the sword Thomas had offered him back when he was a young spring chicken of sixty-five.

_'Is it lighter? Or are you just so much of a big strong man nowadays that its weight is nothing to you?'_

Alfred laughed to himself and felt a strange sort of materialistic power surge within him.

"Hiiiiii-YA!"

Alfred swung the sword in a complete circle. He hadn't really intended to, but the momentum of the thing just kept him going. He managed to finally stop it though and rested the tip of the blade on the carpet for a moment.

'I should probably put it back now.'

And then Alfred lifted it and swung it clumsily around in a circle again, this time on purpose, and with a child-like, "Weeeeeeehehehe!"

Then Alfred wondered how sharp it was.

Five minutes later, Alfred was back down in the kitchen, preparing to slice the cake-brownie into pieces with the beautiful piece of metal (that had probably once been embedded in someone's spleen) and enjoying every single second of it.

But just as he had finished a cut, he heard the familiar creaking of the secret bookcase-door in the front den.

The clomping of shoes, accompanied by the usual exasperated sigh.

And then Bruce entered the kitchen.

Alfred froze, blade still stuck in the gooey side of his sugary-Frankenstein-monstrosity.

There was a moment of silence as Bruce silently asked through his tired facial expression just what the actual fuck was going on.

With one quick inhale, Alfred was miraculously able to recompose his proper, British demeanor.

"Shall I comandeer one slice or two, sir?"

- _Fin_


End file.
